


Taste the Blood

by TVBS



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, Gen, Immortality, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TVBS/pseuds/TVBS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Present day, the Fake AH Crew is the most feared gang in all of Los Santos. They ride into battle with bloodlust and no fear in their hearts. It's hard to feel fear when you always come back to life, after all.</p><p>But they didn't always know each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_June, 1984_  
_Los Santos, California_

You didn't last long in Los Santos if you didn't know who to leave alone.

Sometimes it was obvious. That one dude? Yeah, he's rumored to eat little druggies for fun. But sometimes it was a feeling. Sometimes, it's a gut twinge that says _Hey, this guy's dangerous, don't try to mug this asshole._

It was a sense Ray Narvaez Jr. had picked up pretty well. For as tiny as he was, it was something he needed. Knowing this mark was a bad idea, move on to a better one kept him from being beaten up or worse, killed. And if he ever got into any situations where bigger fish tried to eat him... well, he did know how to run. And running wasn't something he was bad at.

June in Los Santos was murder, he reflected. He preferred to cover up in a jacket, but with the sun so hot overhead... he made a face as his eyes darted around, trying to catch sight of a new mark. While there were plenty of suckers, none of them looked rich enough for it to be worth it. He could easily pickpocket them, make off with a few bucks here and there, but he needed a good drop of money _now_. Rent was due, and he was $50 short. Stealing a crackhead's last few dimes wouldn't pay that.

Damn, if only his last deal hadn't gone bad like that. He could have fucking cleaned up. Even after his cut, that would have been enough to pay rent and get a good run of groceries. Or maybe that new Castle Wolfenstein game. Maybe, if he had gotten lucky and his cut had been big enough. But no, _someone_ had to decide he could get his crack for a better price from another dealer. Bullshit. Ray had the best prices in town, and he made sure of it. Ray shoved his hands into his pockets, wishing he could duck his nose under the collar of a jacket. It just pissed him off. And now he had to go around pickpocketing or mugging like a low level thug. What a fucking piece of shit.

Shit, he would need more than the $50 for rent. He needed some weed money after all this.

Deftly, Ray slid his fingers into the purse of a distracted woman, hurrying away as he pulled her wallet free. There had to be something here, he thought as he ducked into a nearby alley. A $20, something...

Or a pair of $1s. Ray snorted as he pocketed the bills, dumping the wallet into a nearby trashcan as he exited the alley. Of course. Los Santos was a shithole, and no one would carry that much money around here. Well, he could do that twenty-five more times and get at least his rent money. If he had the patience and time for that, of course. There had to be someone.

Jesus. He just- how hard was this? Ray noted a man staring mindlessly out over the side of the road, and- hello. The way his wallet bulged in his back pocket looked promising. Maybe he came to visit some bars and take a hooker or two back to the motel? It was early, but hell, he'd seen men get started on that particular bender earlier than that on a Thursday, buying from him. But more importantly, that was rent money. Ray easily slid the wallet up and out, palming it as he turned-

And froze as a vice clamped over his wrist. "What'cha think ya doin', boy?" came the slur. Ray looked up and _shit_. He had no idea what, but by smell alone, he could tell this guy was not on alcohol or weed. Beyond that, he couldn't tell what was running through his veins. He had to break free of his grasp the fuck _now._ Ray twisted his wrist, wincing as the man yanked on his arm. "Tryin' to steal from me? I should kill you for that!"

"You and half this city," he muttered. He tried twisting his wrist again, gritting his teeth as the grip on his wrist tightened. "Seriously?" With a sharp wrench, Ray finally pulled his arm free, instantly turning to flee. He was tiny, he could slip between the crowd- but it didn't seem to matter to the guy because he just _threw_ people out of his way, stumbling after him. Fuck, whatever he was on... Ray would definitely believe he was dusted. Great. He could always shoot him, but if he was dusted, that wouldn't take him down. The one thing Ray had going for him right now was he had better coordination, so if he could find something that required it- He ducked down an alley, noting the fence at the end. That might work. He picked up speed, leaping up the fence as high as he could and scrambled over it, landing awkwardly as he turned to see if he was safe.

He was. The guy hadn't even followed him down the alley. Somehow, that alone had confused him. Ray laughed, running a hand through his hair. Well, that worked out better than he thought. And time to check out the haul- which he had dropped. Ray spun around, trying to see if he had dropped it when he landed, or even before he had climbed the fence, but no. He couldn't find it.

Goddamn it. He slumped against the wall, frustrated. That would have been perfect. But no, he had to fuck that up.

The sound of a lighter tore him out of his thoughts. Someone was here. Probably a homeless guy. Ray shoved his hands into his pockets as he started to leave, head starting to turn down, then stopped. No, it wasn't a homeless guy. This was a guy that had money, and probably a lot of it. He had a _nice_ leather jacket, clean jeans, some good cigs, and he even looked cleaner than most of the residents of Los Santos. He kept looking at his watch, obviously waiting for someone. Ray's internal alarm blared at him, warning him this wasn't someone to take on. He looked so young, freckles sprinkling pale skin and curly brown hair accenting his youth. But it felt like a trap. It felt like this guy was a lot older than he looked, and a lot more dangerous than most of the gang members he had run from.

But fuck, he needed that money. And the guy didn't look armed.

One thing Ray could do well: Sneak up behind someone. Always good as a pickpocket, and worked amazingly when he pulled out his gun and shoved it into his back. "All I want is your wallet, and no one gets hurt," he told him quietly.

Instead of answering, the guy took a long drag of his cig. "Man, you really are desperate, huh?"

He has a gun digging into his kidney and he's calm? Ray figured he was pretty high up in a gang (in which case he was pretty screwed, but he thought he _knew_ most of the lieutenants), or was just dumb. "Are you deaf? Just pull out your fucking wallet, drop it, and walk away."

"Nah."

What the hell?! Ray watched as he took one last drag of his cig and dropped it, snuffing the butt out with his shoe. "What the hell is up with you?"

The guy turned, in one motion grabbing the gun from Ray and shoving him up against the wall. "Well, mostly that I know you're an idiot for trying to mug me," he told Ray conversationally. "Most people leave me the fuck alone. But you? Man, you have to be the biggest fucking moron out there." The gun rubbed up against his head, making Ray tense. "Or desperate as hell. Either way, still dumb."

"Yeah, that's me, dumb as fuck," Ray grumbled against the wall, trying to talk around the heart in his throat. Fuck. He was going to die here, wasn't he.

The guy made an agreeing noise. "No hard feelings, but I pretty much know how this goes. Been through it before and I kinda hate the little ass guns you shitstains carry as backups." And with those words, he pressed the barrel more firmly against his skull.

Ray didn't know if he heard the gunshot or not.

* * *

It was night.

Ray blinked, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position. His head hurt. He could barely see- where were his glasses? And what was that he was laying in...? Gross, it was all over him. Ray fumbled around, looking for his glasses, snorting when he finally found them. If they hadn't been coated with that liquid, they were basically useless anyway. The fall had cracked them. Well great, now he had to scrape together money for rent and glasses. And new clothes, because everything he was wearing was covered in...

Blood...

Ray froze.

Blood.

He remembered. Pickpocketing, fleeing that one dude on angel dust, the guy that had been too calm during a mugging, being shot in the head... Ray's hands went to the back of his head, swallowing when he realized his skull was whole. Had he dreamed that all? Gotten ahold of some bad weed and hallucinated all of that? But where did that blood come from? Ray felt his forehead, expecting to feel where the bullet had exited. But no, nothing. He was alive, for no reason.

A second chance? Maybe a chance to turn things around, stop dealing and doing something respectable?

Okay, he needed to stop thinking that before he started laughing. No way. Los Santos wouldn't exactly hire a Puerto Rican into a good comfy position. Not to mention he had no experience, so the best he could do was some shitty convenience store clerk job. No thank you. No, he needed to get off the streets before he died again, for good. Like, cooking books or... sniping.

...

Well, he had always been a pretty good shot.


	2. Chapter 2

_May, 1992_  
_San Andreas, California_

That went poorly.

Explosives were tricky things. After decades, one would think Michael would have it down now, but on this scale... sometimes he still fucked up the timing. Or he didn't realized that where it was being set off was going to make the explosion even bigger than usual, or just didn't realize it'd be bigger than he thought. This one wasn't supposed to go off until he got clear, and supposed to be much smaller than that. Went overboard, he thought to himself, resisting the urge to grab the ruined stump of his arm in pain. He had a fucking job to do right now. And anyway, if he bled out, when he came back, it would have grown back. That's what happened the first time he died. Not really sure which surprised him more: Sitting up alone once the bullets were done flying and the shells had finished whistling through the air, or the fact his legs were reattached to his body when he distinctly remembered watching them fly off in another direction. Spinning a tale for why he was still alive and still whole to his squadron was fun.

After all of that, explosions... they were so _fascinating._ Why hadn't it killed him immediately? What could have been done differently? Could he do some even cooler shit with it? Some shrink could have had a field day with how much he loved the damn things and got himself blown up trying to figure out the best one after getting killed by one himself, but fuck them. They were _cool_ and he never really died anyway. Michael grinned as he watched the warehouse burn, carefully readjusting his grip on his pistol. He only had one hand left, and his employer insisted no one get out alive. It wouldn't be too hard to pick off targets from his vantage point near the trees, but it would fucking suck if he dropped his gun now.

Oh look, first wave of survivors. Michael grinned and aimed his first shot, ignoring the pain trying to overtake his brain. He had gotten good at it. Hey, supposedly immortal explosions experts got good at ignoring the injuries they inflicted upon themselves. Which meant it only took two shots to take down the first one, and one to take down each one after, gun clicking empty as soon as the last one dropped. His drill instructor would be so proud to see just how far he had come with his aim. All that practice in the last decade really did come in handy.

Heh. Handy.

Michael carefully watched for more, taking measured breaths as his vision started to darken. Damn, he was starting to lose too much blood. It definitely looked like he had gotten most everyone in the initial explosion ( _good_ ), but if he died now before making sure, kiss that fucking paycheck goodbye. Not really like he was hurting right now - the last job had paid way too well for an arson job - but the reputation hit sucked more. He'd have to change his location, make sure if anyone had made their way out the back. Carefully, he reloaded, dropping the empty and holstering for a moment so he could fish out another magazine and slide it home, clicking it into place with his thumb.

Which was when he heard someone behind him. It wasn't even the sound of footsteps, but the whisper soft swish of clothing that caught his attention. Michael spun around, pulling his gun free, thumb hitting the slide lock as soon as he raised it. Damn. How the fuck had he not seen someone escape? Not just that, how had he not heard someone sneaking up behind him until just fucking now? Michael's eyes narrowed as he looked up, noting with no little alarm that his arm was shaking ever so slightly. Fucking blood loss.

Guy was built like a brick shithouse, give him that. His balaclava was half burnt off, but the blue eyes set under the black material offset by burns that would make Harvey Dent flinch didn't take away from his intimidation. At least he had been caught in the explosion too. That made Michael feel a little better, even if he had a gun pointed in his face.

"You interrupted my work." Michael blinked as the guy suddenly spoke up, sounding a little bemused. "I had just gotten into it too. Not to mention killing my employers while they're trying to escape. I really hate that, you know."

So while he had who knew what degree that was now burns and facing down the guy that just caused that explosion, he sounded kind of fucking insane. Great. Michael just smiled a little, not wanting to shrug. "Eh. You know how it is. Jobs need to be done and all that."

His eyes sharpened at that, flicking down to his arm before back up to his face. "I should kill you for ruining my fun."

Shit. That would definitely be possible. He was never getting paid for this. Michael couldn't help it, but he found his eyes rolling at that thought. "Great." Maybe he could get him first? No, not with how his aim was wavering now. Damn, if this asshole didn't get him first, the blood loss would. Maybe it would be a good thing if he was killed ahahahahah no. He needed to get that fucking paycheck. So maybe some sliver of chance. If he tried really hard, kept this guy talking, he could line up his shot, steady his hand-

"Interesting." Okay, the guy sounded curious at that. Then again, in the face of death, who usually looked fucking casual about it? At least Michael knew he'd come back, even if he didn't get his paycheck if he did that. "Most people now would be begging me not to kill them. You, on the other hand, are standing here with an arm missing and talking casually to me. Almost as if you accept your fate, ready to die in battle. I haven't seen that in a very long time. I had thought people like you didn't exist any more." He nodded slightly at him as his finger shifted on the trigger. "You did do well today, taking out enemies of your employer. May your soul be taken to Valhalla."

And with those odd words, he pulled the trigger.


	3. Chapter 3

_November, 2014  
Vice City_

The biggest problem with being the gang's psychopath had to be the strange hours, Ryan reasoned.

Normally, he'd be asleep right about now. And rightfully so. He had already had a long, boring day. Normal days always took the most out of him for some reason. It was like not blowing something up or getting into a shootout or torturing someone took a toll on him. Though, right now, he didn't _want_ to torture someone. He just wanted to sleep. Just... let his body rest. After a few hundred years, didn't he earn some hours of repose? Yes, he was most happy in the thick of battle, hearing valkyries around him, unable to join them in Valhalla as he came back to life after dying. But even warriors deserved rest.

Not this, not being called up to come in at his scariest and torture someone they recognized as this guy's... honestly, Ryan didn't even care at this point. This person was interrupting his sleep, and he was going to take it out on them.

He checked his knives, making sure they were where he expected them to be, then double checked his gun. Everything had to be in place. He had gone into battle before missing a dagger, so when he had been disarmed... that had not been a glorious death. Yes, this person was supposed to be tied up. Didn't stop him from being paranoid, especially around this gang. He might have to kill them first before they decided he was too much of a threat. Too bad. They paid well.

Enough. Ryan strode past the members of the gang that were still awake, ignoring how they blatantly stared at him. Well, his skull mask did stand out as well as hid his identity. Which was its job. Ryan turned his head to a nervous lieutenant as he approached the interrogation room, noting with no little amusement the bruised cheek and missing teeth. Whoever was in there had some spirit. He just stared at the man, waiting.

He didn't wait long. "Ramsey's bitch is in there," the lieutenant told him, turning to spit a mouthful of bloody saliva. "Caught her trying to get some information from one of our informants. Greg snitched on her. We need to know more, though, like what the fuck she was actually looking for. So go rough her up a little bit, get her interested in telling us something about Ramsey.

Ramsey. Why did they have this strife with the Ramseys' and those working for them? The female Ramsey rarely stepped foot outside Los Santos, and her husband sometimes did but usually spent most of his time in a drunken haze, barely a threat. The only reason Ryan even knew who they were was because the leader of this gang was so obsessed with them. They sometimes did cause trouble outside Los Santos, but... they weren't even a crew, much less a gang.

It baffled him.

So there was someone in there that was female and worked with Ramsey. He doubted it was Ramsey's wife, as she would have cut them all to ribbons with that chainsaw first. So... Ryan frowned, grateful it was hidden by the mask as he entered the room. Who could it be?

The thought fled as his heartbeat picked up, seeing two felled bodies by an empty chair. His hand instantly went for his gun, hand barely wrapping around it before he felt something beside him. Without thinking, he dove forward, spinning immediately to see a gun correct itself to point at him. The hand hold it was attached to a rather lovely woman, short red hair. Her eyes kept on his, unflinching and angry. Very interesting. Even in this line of work, very women had eyes like her. Few women had a gaze where they didn't fear death, and at the same time knew how to spread it. A smile spread behind his mask, knowing his eyes echoed the appreciation.

"I didn't know they were totally crazy," she finally said, conversationally. "Or stupid. Or both, since they hired the Mad King."

That fucking nickname. It fit, but he hated it so much. He rather preferred the one he had in the 90s, the Vagabond. Much less dramatic. "You have me at a disadvantage," he told her smoothly, watching her eyes narrow. "You know who I am, but I haven't the pleasure."

She smiled at that, fierce and unpleasant. "Good. And you won't."

* * *

Ryan really hadn't wanted to come out tonight. Waking up in a pool of his own blood, coming back to life yet again, just proved his point.

Well. That had been a waste. The only thing that comforted him was the fact that she was probably dead herself. Such a stupid thing to do. Even if she didn't fear death, putting herself into such a place that-

Huh. That was certainly a firefight going on outside. Ryan reached for his gun, snorting as he realized it was missing. Same with his knives. Well, at least the woman knew to take his weapons. Though, where she would fit them in that outfit would be interesting. Already low cut top? She must have been using sex appeal to be getting her information. Ryan pushed himself off the floor. Well, no use staying here. If he was careful, he could make it to where they kept the extra weapons and arm himself again. Shit, who could be attacking them now? His first thought was Ramsey but- no. If it was, he was working for the wrong person. Ramsey had far more guts, going after an actual gang with the amount of people he had.

Gunshots sounded further away. Good. Ryan crept down the hall, slow and careful. He didn't want to die again, after all. It was annoying. Though, he would have to cross through where he heard the gunshots and that wouldn't be fun. He frowned, creeping closer. This would suck.

Someone started to come closer, shooting. Damn. Ryan could only hope they were friendly. There was simply no cover here. While he was a big guy, anyone with a gun could take him out. Simple fact. Ryan tensed, ready to have to try to wrestle a gun from a grasp when that woman backed into the hallway, instantly turning once caught sight of Ryan out of the corner of her eye. With a small snort, he noticed the gun in her hands was his own. Her eyes widened slightly, making him feel a little better that she was taken by surprise that the one she had killed was alive again.

And then her lips curled as her eyes narrowed. "Of course the fucking Mad King is also immortal," she spat out, the inflection on the words wrong. It didn't sound like she was damning him for being immortal on top of all of it, but... Ryan's eyes flicked between the gun and her face, trying to read her. Was she insinuating that she...?

The sound of a chainsaw made him groan. Yes, he definitely was working for the wrong people. He should have been working for the Ramseys' if they had balls like these. In response, the woman grinned. "Sounds like my ride's here." Her finger started to curl, then the barrel dropped suddenly.

Pain spread across his pelvic area. Damn. She aimed right at his hips, shattering his pelvic bone. While Ryan had gotten good at ignoring most pain, there were some he couldn't. This was one of them. He fell, nausea rising. Injuries like this hadn't happened in a long time. And the way she smiled, fierce and without humor... "Stay down," she instructed. "Don't need you coming back to life again before we get out."

Yes, it definitely sounded like she had contact with other immortals. Perhaps Ramsey...? Ryan opened his mouth to ask, but her gun pointed back down the hall, advancing again. 

Well.

Once he died and came back healed from this, he would need to look into being Geoff Ramsey's psychopath.


	4. Chapter 4

_January, 2014_  
_Los Santos, California_

_Merde._ She liked that shirt.

Jack fingered the hole in her shirt over her heart as she sat up, frowning. Lucky shots were her enemy. Not only did they kill her, they interrupted her work. And she had put a lot of work into learning as much as she could about the Ramsey gang. Fascinating, really. Run by a husband/wife team that apparently felt no fear, they were impressively good at running small heists, and they were never caught. Somehow, they had some of the best surveillance out there, because she had been caught fairly quickly. Actually, if she wasn't being paid to get information about the Ramseys, she would have been putting in her offer.

But now she had to get out. Geoff Ramsey had already caught her and killed her once. Jack looked around, taking note of how well guarded the room they had dumped her body in, and coming up with laughably little. It wouldn't be hard to get out of the room, anyway. But she had been dead when they dropped her in there, so she had no idea just how far she had to go to get out. Not the first time this had happened, but every time it was annoying. Jack patted herself down, not surprised when she came up with no weapons. Any criminal worth their salt took weapons off a dead body. If anything, the weapons had great resell value. She crept over towards the door, listening carefully. They expected a body in there, so it didn't sound like anyone was right outside the door. Good.

Immortality had its perks.

As quickly and silently as she could, Jack slipped out of the room. It looked like she was in a warehouse, if the concrete floors and echoing sounds of labor down the hallway were any indication. More than likely there was an emergency exit down the opposite end. She was a spy, that was certain, but she wasn't the type that skulked around dark corners. She couldn't make her way through that warehouse unseen. But she would have to trip the emergency alarm to get out the other way, if she was correct in her assumption. And she had no weapons on her to fight her way out. Jack grit her teeth at that, stifling a soft " _putain_ " against her lips.

The emergency exit would be less guarded. Probably her best bet. Jack turned and started making her way further down the hall, listening hard for the sound of anyone coming up on her. It sounded... rather empty down this way, to be certain. Which was interesting.

What was more interesting was it didn't lead out into an exit of any sort. Instead, it lead to a branching path, as if the warehouse had been attached to a series of offices. Interesting. Where could she be? She would put her ill-gotten money on a money still owned by the Ramseys, but other than that, she had no idea. Jack looked down both ends, and decided to take a left. Maybe she would be able to get out of here easier than she thought. That is, if she didn't run into either Ramsey again. That would not be fun.

The office part was eerily quiet. What was going on? She would have thought there would at least be some suits back here, but nothing. Then again, the Ramseys didn't have a big gang. The main players were Geoff and Griffon, though there were rumors from her sources that there was a third G. But no one could produce any proof, not a name, not even what this mythical third G would do. Just that there was one.

Every door she tried had a dark office. It looked like the office part was abandoned. Perhaps where the Ramseys came to do their business deals while their hired hands took care of the grunt work? That would be useful. Jack tested another door handle, opening it smoothly after it proved unlocked, and sighed as it was another empty office. Nothing was back here. She might have to double back to find her exit. One more door was left, though. She walked over to it, and stopped, looking down at the anemic light glowing from the edge.

Someone was in there.

No. Not like this. If she had a gun, then yes. She would be in there, ready to take on whoever was in there. But not unarmed. She couldn't do it like that. Jack took a deep breath and turned, ready to make her way back down the hall when she heard rapid footsteps coming down the hallway she had just come down. Damn it! She had forgotten about the Ramseys surveillance. Someone must have seen her coming down the halls and alerted nearby guards. Jack tested the door handle, then took a step back as it proved locked. Two good kicks slammed the door open, showing what the room had been hiding.

Computers. Lots of them. And she had been right, they had amazing surveillance. She could see the room she had woken up in; they must have known when she came back to life. Jack took in all the screens briefly, noting the small knot of guards were, before her gaze snapped down to the person in the chair.

Well, the people by the chair. She recognized Geoff Ramsey right off the bat. Anyone would. That mustache set him apart from anyone else, as did the tattoos and the suit. His lazy gaze were at odds with the steady hand he held his gun. But the one in the seat. No one had described the younger man to her. Anyone would have remembered that nose, large as it was. He held a gun just as steadily, his eyes sharper than Ramsey's. And yet, he didn't look as hardened, as jaded. But somehow... older. As if-

"Well, I'm impressed." Ramsey's voice broke the silence, just as lazy as his eyes. "How long did that take?"

"Half an hour." Well. The kid was British. Interesting.

"Half an hour." The words rolled around Ramsey's mouth, as if he was tasting them and wasn't sure what he thought. "Not bad. Especially when I expected you to stay dead."

Ramsey didn't seem to be surprised that she was alive again. Why? "Sorry to disappoint."

"No, no." He absently waved his gun, smiling. "Actually, I'm pretty impressed. Didn't expect Gav here to tell me the spy I killed earlier was alive again. So who are you working for?"

"You know this isn't how it works, right?"

He laughed at that. "Actually, this is exactly how it works. Because I know you won't heal any damage until you die, so I could just shoot you in a few painful spots first. And then shoot you in them again once you come back." Ramsey grinned at the surprised look on her face. "I've dealt with immortals like you before. So, who are you working for?"

Jack looked at him, then at Gav, then back. Something about their eyes... they looked so much older than they seemed. Then it hit her. She saw that look in her own eyes every day. The weight of years, decades, centuries past. Either being a criminal had aged them horribly, or she had finally found people like her. "How much are you willing to pay me?"

"Depends on what you tell me."


	5. Chapter 5

_September 2013  
Los Santos, California_

Geoff hated hackers.

See, in his day, he didn’t have to worry about some little smartass kid sit back in a desk and undo all his hard work in his latest heist. He didn’t have to worry about waking up and seeing someone had messed with his bank accounts for a laugh. And he certainly didn’t have to worry about someone busting into his office, panicked because some asshole just planted a worm in the system.

Yeah. Geoff hated hackers. You used to be able to see that kind of stuff happen in front of you and kill them as it happened.

Which made it so nice that the asshole responsible for all of the above was wriggling in zip ties right in front of him. Someone who was about to get a very fat bonus managed to track this bastard down and gift wrap him for Geoff. Grinning, he leaned over, snatching the aviators right off the kid’s face. “Hey there, asshole.”

The kid just glared at him, still struggling in his ties. Man, Geoff hated hackers, but loved catching them since it seemed like none of them knew how to actually live in the real world and thus get out of bindings like that. Chuckling, Geoff pulled out a nearby chair and sat down on it backwards, casually holding a gun as he rested his hands on the back. Strangely, while the kid just tracked the movement with his eyes... he didn’t panic at the sight of the gun.

Curious.

”So. You’ve been making yourself a real bitch for me, you know that?” Geoff watched the kid, rolling his eyes when he didn’t react to that. “Yeah. You’ve been busy. You do that for all petty crime bosses or am I special?”

A grunt.

”What was that?” Geoff cupped his free hand around his ear. “I didn’t hear you.”

”That’s because I didn’t say anything.” Oh goody, the kid was British. Well then. The kid glared at him, wriggling into a sitting position.

”Well, you better.” He gestured lazily with the gun, pointing it at the kid almost by chance. “Because your chances of being able to say anything ever again are becoming rather slim.”

The words were heard, considered-

And ignored. The kid just shrugged, looking up at him with fearless eyes. Geoff frowned, looking over him. Kid was not afraid to die. Not looking forward to it, but- it was almost like him. He knew he’d come back if someone shot him to death, but it hurt. So he didn’t look forward to it. But this kid had the exact same kind of look.

Geoff sat back a little, the realization settling hard in his stomach. “Not going to talk? Could always torture you, see who you’re working for.”

”No one.” The kid shrugged the best he could. “Doesn’t matter, does it? You’re going to kill me any way I talk.” He looked back at Geoff, almost daring him to do so.

This goddamn kid... Geoff stood suddenly, kicking the chair to one side as he aimed down at him, losing all semblance of laziness. “Yeah. I’m going to kill you anyway. Though how I kill you depends on how much you talk. Don’t, and I’ll give you to my wife. Do, and I’ll put a bullet in your brain.

”Griffon’s not here,” came the bored response. “Do you really think I don’t have your cameras already hacked? You’re hiring people in from the outside to help out, you’re so shorthanded, and your wife is out doing chores.” The kid pulled a little on his wrists, grunting. “So if you could just kill me and we can get on with it.”

Interesting choice of words. Geoff played with the end of his mustache, considering. “So you think you have me figured out?”

”I think I’m bored now.”

Okay, that was enough. Geoff dropped the hand playing with his mustache and sighted down the barrel. Fuck it.

The gunshot rang through the air, blood splattering over his rumpled tux as the kid’s body crumpled to the side, a bullet through his brain. He didn’t want to do that but the kid gave him no choice. Fuck. Now he had to get cleaned up.

”Dump it,” he told someone as he walked out, absently holstering his gun as he went, knowing he would be obeyed.

* * *

No. Fucking. Way.

Geoff stood in the door of the liquor store, hand wrapped around the paper bag with the bottle of whiskey inside, eyes narrowed. Now, when he was drunk, he saw things sometimes, especially when he was just about to drink enough that he literally drank himself to death (alcohol poisoning deaths were so messy), but he hadn’t even had a sip yet. So what he saw coming into the shop was either a ghost, someone that looked just like that hacker asshole...

”Shit.”

Or was the British fucker himself.

Geoff’s free hand reached out and grabbed him, hauling him away from the shop and down to a nearby alley, the kid spluttering the entire way. He threw him into a nearby wall, feeling vindication when the kid yelped in pain. “So. You want to explain?”

”Look, I don’t have much money, so-” Oh God, the kid was babbling.

”I’m not dumb, kid. So. You want to explain how you’re alive again or should I put another bullet in your skull and see if that was just a fluke?”

The kid groaned at that. “Please don’t. It took me ages to make it back to my flat when I had that much blood on me.”

”You’re still not explaining.” Geoff cracked the seal on the whiskey, taking a sip. “Though, if I were to take a guess, I would say... not the first time you died.”

That earned Geoff a doubtful eyeing. “You’re taking this rather well.”

He shrugged, an idea starting to form. “Hey, you said you had my cameras already hacked, right?”

”I’m not going to tell-”

”Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Geoff interrupted him. “No, I just want to know, how hard is that shit? Like, can you do that for... like shops and banks?”

The kid stared at him. “I can, and I have- what is this about?”

”I think I may have the best idea ever,” Geoff told him with a grin. “I really hate hackers, but when you can have one working for you... especially one that’s immortal, I think we can use that. What do you say?”

”What makes you think I won’t sell you out, or put you in a position to be killed?”

Geoff shrugged. “Because I’m pretty certain you have a few morals as I do and it’s hard to kill someone that won’t stay dead.” He grinned at the startled look on the kid’s face. “Besides, you prove hackers aren’t fuckasses and I can pay you pretty well.”

The kid looked at him, then down at the bottle in his hand, then back up to his face. “You’re not pulling those kind of jobs.”

”Not _yet._ ”

Considering, the kid tilted his head up, looking up at the kid. Then, he looked back at Geoff. “No one knows about me. If anyone knows I work for you, I’m gone.”

”Deal.” He wanted it that way anyway. It’d work better for them that way. “So you already know I’m Geoff Ramsey. What’s your name?”

”Gavin. Gavin Free.”

That made Geoff laugh. “Another G name. Well, welcome to the team, asshole. Don’t fuck up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah, that felt good. I will be writing a sequel as to how they actually did come together and work on heists and learn they were all immortal. Eventually. Thank you, everyone!


End file.
